


The Process

by SaturnsOrbits



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28845726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnsOrbits/pseuds/SaturnsOrbits
Summary: Sometimes it feels like you’ll never write anything. That is, until you find inspiration in the simplest of interactions.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader
Kudos: 10





	1. Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Aha. This is self-indulgent trash, but it was also kind of therapeutic to write. There's no plot so to speak, just the rambles of someone who wishes she had someone to help her out of her writers block. Ft, the lovely Kuroo because why not.

You've been staring at the screen for long enough that your coffee has gone cold. The white page taunts you, pulls tongues and laughs as your fingers hover above the keys. It feels like an age since you've written anything. That might be because it has.

You're more than aware of the cliché that you've come to embody. The young writer, tucked away in a semi-fashionable, locally owned coffee shop where you sip on the edge of an overpriced cappuccino in-between constructing badly worded metaphors for a novel that will, most probably, never see the light of day.

A familiar swirl of inadequacy settles in your stomach. 

You'd love to be able to write even a sentence, but the words won't come and when they do, they're wrong. In your head, you envision sentences like melodies, coaxing out hidden emotions from all of the readers you don't have. You can imagine the paragraphs that flow and ebb, giving and taking in all the right places to create something astounding. Yet, all you have to show for it is: nothing. 

Just white, blank, nothingness. 

You'd thought coming to the café would fix things. It didn't. That hadn't stopped you from coming back though. For the past few months you've been back at least twice a week to sit at one of the uncomfortable wooden tables and stare at the blank page of your laptop screen.

Of course, he's here. That's a bonus. Sure, he's a cliché in himself all tall, dark and handsome, but you'll take your inspiration where you can these days.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Already you've watched the café fill for the morning rush and empty out again. When the café fills again for lunch, you've still not written any more than you had that morning. 

'Written much?' His voice is like the doorbell that rings when a new customer enters. It's clear, gentle, almost musical and automatically causes your head to snap up from the nothingness on your screen. 

You snort, scrunch up your nose and try to push away the blossoming excitement that hollows out your chest. 'Not really.' Tilting your laptop, you expose your failings to him. The bare document burns white and you can see it reflected in the brown of his eyes as he glances down. 

'Got writers block or something?' Arching an eyebrow, he leans behind you. His fingers slip into two glasses as he plucks them from the table with a practised grace. 

Your mouth twists. 'Kind of...' 

He places the glasses into a large, grey bucket wedged against his hip. Although he continues to clean, slipping an off-yellow dish rag from the back pocket of his jeans to draw large, lazy circles on the table behind you, he doesn't drop the conversation. 'What is it then?' 

'It's hard to explain.' 

'Try me...' He's still cleaning. Stuffing the rag back into his pocket, he sets his bucket down on the newly clean table and begins to clear another. His hands stretch wide, fingers spreading as he rounds up a collection of half-filled cups and sets them into the bucket. 'I'm not just a pretty face, you know,' he smirks. 'I'm sure I can keep up.' 

The innocent banter has become almost routine between the two of you. It's all mundane small talk, really. That doesn't stop the heat that rises up your neck whenever you catch a glimpse of him though. 

Of course, it's understandable. He's gorgeous. You're not blind and you're certainly not immune to his charms, but you know better. Men like him only go for women like you in the cliché's and your writing professor has already told you to avoid them. So, you do. Still, it's not lost on you that you've been looking at him like the swoon-worthy leading man of your word-constipated daydreams. 

'So, you gonna explain or what?' The bucket is back on his hip. It has caught on his shirt, the corner pulling up the fabric and exposing a slither of flesh at his pelvis. His skin is smooth and stretched thinly across the bend of his side. From your vantage point, you can spy the deep crevice of his inguinal crease and you wonder just how often he has to work out to keep such structures so defined.

You almost shrink away from him. In your ogling, you've built him up to be a masterpiece. The kind of man that only exists in the soft pages of erotic novellas and yet, when he frowns there are still imperfections in his skin, a slight redness to the tip of his nose, a purpling under his eyes that makes him obviously, achingly real. 

Your observation threatens to break your cliché and so you retreat back into your head. You wonder how you'd describe him. Wonder about what mix of adjectives you'd use to detail the way he narrows his eyes at you, or the twitch of a smile that lingers at the corner of his mouth. Then, the niggling trepidation is back. It itches at your fingers and stops your day-dreaming, erasing all the colourful words in your head and leaves you blank again. 

'Go on,' he prods. 

'I know what I want to write...' You start, uneasily navigating the tangle of emotions that so often jeopardises your work. It feels oddly intimate, opening yourself up to him, a stranger, like this, but for some reason you do it anyway. Or try to, at least. 'But... But, it never – y'know.' Gesturing the screen with open hands, you turn to look up at him, wondering if he understood anything of what you had just said. You're not totally sure you understood it yourself. You gesture the screen again, as if it's going to unlock the meaning of your half-sentences. 

His eyebrows are high on his forehead. There's a wrinkle that emerges in-between them and you wonder why you haven't paid attention to it before. Then, his expression changes and it's gone. 'So... It's like -.' 

'Kuroo! The froth-machines clogged again...'

'Coming!' He calls over his shoulder before turning back to you. 'I think I know what you mean, though.' 

You could swear that he winks at you before he spins on the balls of his feet and weaves his way back towards the counter, but you're quick to convince yourself that it's a trick of the light. 

'Kuroo...' Rolling his name around in your mouth, you press its sharp edges against your palate, curl your tongue around its long vowels. It tastes smooth. A fitting title for the little cliché you've created for him. 

You sigh, watching as he disappears under the machine, presumably to fix whatever ails it for his co-worker. 

Sometimes, when you look at him, you can feel the swell of a sentence build in the back of your head. It sits there, allowing you to knock it around for a second, just long enough for you to feel the gentle prod of an idea begin to germinate. It fades not long after that. 

As always, his absence leaves you with nothing, but the sweet after-taste of the delicate metaphors that had been summoned to describe him.


	2. Cliché

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Attending your first volleyball game to support Kuroo, you find the little cliché you’ve come to embody fuels your creativity.

The excitement in the sports-centre is palpable.

You've never been to a volleyball game before, but here you are, standing amongst the crowd at a national game. It's only a Division two match, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that you're here, sardined in-between fully-grown men and over-zealous teenage court bunnies to support him. 

In the short, six months you've been an official couple, he's not stopped asking about your writing. Even on the bad days, which are more often than not, when it feels like you'll never produce anything of worth, Kuroo's there. He’ll press his lips to your bare shoulders and tell you not to rush, not to be too critical, to remember to enjoy the process. So, you're repaying the favour. You're going to be the best damn hype-man you can be.

Somehow you've managed to shoulder your way to the front of the stands. The bar you're leaning against is cold on your bare forearms causing goose-flesh to cover you like the coat you're refusing to wear should be. You've stuffed the parka at your feet. No matter how cold it gets, you won't wear it. You want him to see.

Two weeks ago you'd accidentally borrowed one of his old jerseys. It's far too big and your forced to keep hauling it back at the neck to prevent yourself from falling out of its low collar. The number blazoned across your chest is 1. The number he'd worn in high school, the same one he wears now as Captain of a new team. You're aware it's cliché. The game, the boyfriend, the God-damn jersey, but you're willing to let it slide this once.

A round of cheers breaks the soft lull of chatter that had descended upon the stadium. You can't help the grin that splits open your mouth at the sight of the teams funnelling out of the thin tunnel. He's at the front. As the Captain should be. You watch as he pauses at the bench and begins to offer out encouraging shoulder-pats and head-pushes to his team-mates. Then, swiping his water bottle from the floor he turns his back on them.

He's making a show of searching the crowd, one hand on his hip as his eyes meticulously roam the stands, checking every seat.

You feel anticipation call the hairs on your neck to attention. Your skin prickles as heat begins to inch its way through your body as his gaze nears where you're stood. Then, he catches you. His eyes light up and even at a distance, you can just make out the edges of his signature smirk rise to his lips. Lifting yourself up onto your tip-toes, you push your chest over the rail, exposing the bright red and black of his jersey as it wraps your body.

There's a lump in Kuroo's throat that he can't seem to swallow. His stomach leaps into his chest, his heart into his mouth as he grabs a handful of his jersey and lifts it slightly to show you he appreciates you're thievery. For a moment, he just stands there staring at you then, someone is clapping him hard on the back. The teams setter lands another blow in-between his shoulder blades, calling him back from his distraction and just before he is forced to peel his eyes from yours he winks.

That's all it takes. There's a burst like fireworks in the back of your head and adjectives rain down into the grey matter of your brain. Your mind absorbs them hungrily. After so many months blocked, your creativity is thankful for the nourishment and yet, you hit back upon a familiar problem. None of them are good enough. They don't fit. Not any more. You sigh. 

Even now, he evades your attempts to capture his essence. You've spent hours trying and failing to describe the way he looks, the way he makes you feel, but nothing comes close to the blazing aura of him as he stands on the edge of the court now. You slip your hands together and pinch the skin of your knuckle between forefinger and thumb, calming the avalanche of words in your head. The pain is dull, but it stops the stream of expression threatening to distract you from the game that's about to begin.

The whistle blows pulling you back into reality. From the moment of the first serve, you can hardly keep track of the ball. It bounces off every possible surface: hands, arms, floors, walls and on one occasion a players face. Still, it's not until you see him move that you begin to really understand the game. 

He's quick. Up on the balls of his feet, he slips from behind one of his team-mates and leaps. You watch as the muscles in his arm stretch upwards over his head, ligaments bending his wrist to a forty-five degree angle. It's as if the ball is drawn to him, but before you have time to digest what you're seeing, he's hit it. Kuroo lands with a thud. His back curls, his fists clenching as he punches at the air while a shout you can't quite hear is ripped from his throat.

When the adjectives return, they emerge like a swarm of bees and describe the curve of his hand, the bend of his thumb, the bulging fibres of his biceps. You pinch your knuckle again, causing the words to retreat.

Kuroo jumps for another spike. Knots of concentration form on his forehead as he twists his hips for a better shot. There's a dip in his neck right where the collar of his jersey ends, marking the start of his collarbone that's visible for a brief moment when he's airborne. A convoluted metaphor rises in you and attempts to capture his aesthetic. It misses the mark and sends you frantically searching for another one. 

It almost burns. The spark he ignites in you is violent and uncontrollable. It fills you with one-million things you can’t describe, no matter how hard you try and you do try. 

You have to bite down on your knuckles the next time the words rise like a tsunami and crash down against your brain. He’s stood wide, squatted down onto his knees as he forms a triangle with his arms, hands clasped together to receive the ball. It hits his skin, arching back into the air and you hiss as you see the red marks on his forearms from the force. 

You’re still not able to capture the right way to sketch him out, but you haven’t given up yet. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You don't realise that you've completely zoned out, eyes glassy as you rush to note the new barrage of messy descriptions that had poured from you during the game until he clears his throat.

You're in the lobby of the sports-centre. Kuroo's last spike had won them the match and with the adrenaline of their win quickly dissipating, the team have retreated from the court to await their second. The rest of the team are sat about around you, littering the floor like crumbs. Some bite at the rings of their water bottles, others stretch or munch on small pieces of banana or watermelon. Kuroo has taken up refuge with you. He has his head on your shoulder, despite the awkward shape it forces his neck into.

You slip your hands onto your lap and pinch your knuckle again. You don't know what it is, but there's something about him that unlocks you, allowing the stifled creativity that hides within you to bubble to the surface. The snippets are gone as soon as they arrive, leaving you with nothing, but short drabbles of something - something raw and unfinished, but at least it’s something. 

Kuroo rotates his shoulders as he looks up at you through black, overly-long eyelashes. 'Inspired yet?'

'I can't quite...' You lift hands, palm facing upwards as you gesture the theoretical laptop screen in front of you. He'd been right, back in the café, he had known what you'd been talking about. These days, the gesture was more communicative than any of the words that toppled through your head to describe your ever present writers block. 

Wrapping one of his arms around you, he reaches out with his index finger and uses the pad to brush the bone at your wrist. The touch is delicate and makes something tighten in your chest, but it's the low gravel of his voice beside your ear that makes your stomach flutter. 'Maybe I could help with that...' It's almost obscene the way he moans into your ear in the crowded auditorium, knowing his voice is too low for anyone else to hear.. '… I could inspire you.' 

As soon as he speaks, his faux-smoothness shatters. It's like the words try and cram themselves back down his throat. As soon as they've left his mouth he gags and sticks his tongue out as if repulsed by the taste. 'Oh My God, I hate myself, I don't even know why I would – for fucks sake -.'

You'd gotten used to this, his violent bunny-hopping from cliché to cliché. One moment his smirk carries all the smug charm of the leading-man you'd assumed he was and then, it's peeled away to expose the dorky jock that is nothing, but bad chemistry puns and cheap jokes – the person you've learned he is.

Instantly, he pulls away from you as if burnt by his own cockiness. Even though he's covering the lower portion of his face with his hands, you can see the redness spreading across his cheeks. It reminds you of sunrises and cherry ice-cream. 

His embarrassment spurs another flurry of descriptive metaphor to bloom at the base of your skull. This time, you don't push it away. You allow it to grow. In the back of your head, the words take root, they weave together like ivy and soon, the fresh shoots of an new idea begin to germinate. You break into his rant by twisting your body and retaking his arm. You lay your finger across the back of his hand and curl them under his wrist. His skin is clammy from the game and you can feel the rapid beating of his heart from where your fingertip rests on his radial artery. 'I think I'd like that.'

His fingers wrap your wrist until your both holding onto each other in some kind of awkward figure of eight. 'Yeah?'

The smirk appears back on his lips and you bite your own to stop a second wave of inspiration before it can distract your from the moment. 'Yeah.'


	3. Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No longer at the whim of your writers block, you come to the realisation that it’s Kuroo, who has provided you with the inspiration to write.

A knock at your office door breaks the silence nestled inside. You know it's Kuroo. There's a distinct timber to the sound of his knuckles wrapping against the cold wood that's unmistakable to your trained ear.

He waits for a moment or two and when you don't reply, he knocks again and gingerly pokes his head around the door.

'Sorry.' You look up from the screen of your laptop, a screen that's now no longer blank, but full of the tiny black scribbles of sentences and smile. The light illuminates your face, casting odd shadows across the plain of your cheeks and your neck. 'I got caught up,' you apologise.

Your co-habitation had begun shortly after your college graduation. The writer in you would love to say it was a romantic affair. That Kuroo had decided he simply couldn't go another day without sleeping next to you every, single night and demanded you move in together, but that wasn't it. The truth was, your apartment was too big and too expensive and the new blue sofa you'd bought was lacking a permanent Kuroo shaped arse print.

'Still writing?' He approaches the desk your sat at, lays his palms against it and leans forward. His hair is still wet. The usual fluffy spikes have been flattened, sticking the thick, black mane to the dome of his head.

You nod, chewing at your lip. In the few months you've been living together you've found that the writers block that plagued you rears its head less and less. Of course, there are the bad days. Days when your fingers still itch, but refuse to write. When your brain stalls and stutters and even Kuroo can't help smooth out your thoughts, but today isn't one of those days.

'Can I see it yet?' He lifts his hand, letting his fingertips trail across the desk as he slinks around to your side.

A rush of lemon envelopes you when he leans over you and presses his lips to the exposed junction of your shoulder. You roll easily into his touch, relishing in the small rush of an unfinished sentence that trickles from your temples when his tongue slips past his lips and is pressed flat to your skin.

'If you'd like.' You're nervous. There's an anxious bubbling in your chest as he rests his chin in the crook of your neck and begins to read. It makes you wonder how you'd done it so easily before, exposed your blank page to him back in the café when you'd still been strangers.

His mouth twitches as he reads, the starting syllables of each word vocalised slightly under his breath. Then, he's interrupted. His breath hitches, nose scrunching up as he sighs.

'What's...' He's pointing at the screen, long finger unfurling and hovering millimetres above it. 'Se – Seren...’

'You follow his finger and read the word he's pointing at. 'Serendipity.'

'Serendipity.' He twists the word around his tongue a few times, feeling around its consonants. It's new.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's had a new appreciation for words since he met you. In fact, he's pretty sure his vocabulary has increased ten-fold.

It's not uncommon for you to just appear in front of him, laptop balanced atop your splayed palm as you hold it aloft.

'I'm looking for a word,' you'll say.

You'll explain then, the mess of emotions you're attempting to reduce to a singular expression and wait with baited breath for his input.

Usually, his input comes in the form of throwing words at you until you're satisfied. More often than not, his barrage of sub-par adjectives isn't helpful at all. On occasion, it'll help you rediscover the word you're looking for yourself. But, it's the rare occurrences when the right words fall from his lips that he cherishes.

It's the brightness that echoes in your eyes as your lips part to a smile. The way you'll click your fingers and look at him like he's the answer to every question you've ever asked, before slipping your laptop onto the nearest solid surface just so you can wrap your arms around his neck and press a grateful kiss into his mouth.

You'd whispered something to him once.

He'd just hit upon the word you were looking for –ardent– and you'd all, but thrown your laptop onto the kitchen counter before wrapping yourself around him. Pressing up onto your tip-toes, you'd taken his cheeks in your hands, thumbs rubbing the soft skin behind his ears.

That was when you said it: 'Muse.'

The word had ricocheted around his head, causing something to bloom in his chest. It amazes him still, how you're able to convert the prickle of heat he forges within you into words when he's always left breathless by you.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He's reminded of that now as he reads the prose you've written. It's not difficult to spot the striking similarities between his own subtle mannerisms and the quirks of the man you describe on the page.

'So...' You turn, panicked, wondering why his cheeks have flushed.

His eyes are out of focus, but still gazing at the screen.

Cringing, you resist the urge to swivel your chair and demand his thoughts like an over-eager student.

'No-one has ever written about me before.' He's pinched his bottom lip between a fore-finger and thumb. The other hand is perched on his hip, his fingers dipping just under the loose hem of his shorts.

With his eyebrows knitted together and the soft light from the word document casting a faint glow onto his cheekbones, he looks beautiful. So beautiful, you can already feel the soft crest of an emotion peak in your head, begging you to note it down.

You don't know how to tell him that he's largely become your reason for writing. You're unsure if he'll find the idea overbearing or romantic so you keep your mouth shut. Instead, you lift yourself from your chair and clasp your hands behind his head.

You wonder if he'll ever be able to understand the calm that spreads through you when he touches his forehead to yours, or the faint shock of electricity that jump-starts whatever is inside you that turns feelings into words.

He looks at you, kisses the tip of your nose and takes the words straight out of your head. 'Muse,' he mutters, chuckling. 'Told you I'd be able to keep up.'


	4. Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Kuroo’s there to remind you that not everything has to be novel-worthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-warning: This chapter includes detailed sex depictions.

The mattress dips behind you when he sinks his knee into it. On all fours, he crawls to you, attempting to leer over your body to check if you're asleep. He's not slick. You can feel his breath fanning your neck, smell the faint cologne that has managed to cling to his shirt despite a long day of business meetings.

'Didn't mean to wake you,' he mumbles, placing his lips to your temple. The mattress lifts once more, no longer under his weight and your whole body begins to relax.

To say you've had a bad day would be an understatement. It's been the worst. You haven't been able to write a single thing for months. Instead, you’ve taken to sitting at your desk, fingers hovering over the keys of your laptop as the familiar claws of doubt and self-deprecation begin to itch at your skin.

Your sudden wakefulness brings with it a new wave of the negativity you had battled during the day and already, you can feel it carving you out. It scrapes at your insides, purging you of anything remotely hopeful. Part of you wants to give in, to curl up under the duvet and throw away any dream you'd ever had of being a writer.

And then, just before the numbness can set in, he's there.

He's used the time you've been catastrophising to strip. Peeling himself out of a ruffled work-shirt, he unknots his tie and shoves his slacks down his legs. The fact he's been more productive in those five minutes than you've been all day isn't lost on you as another wave of inadequacy swirls in your stomach.

He comes back to you almost naked and nestles into you. Hand reaching out, his palm finds the neutral ground of your hip and rests there.

In moments like this he sheds his muse-dom. Instead of fuelling your creativity he grounds you, pulls you back down by the ankles and keeps you rooted in the moment. In moments like these, he reminds you that there is more than your writing, more than words and cliché and inspiration and muses.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The urge isn't sudden, or creeping. It's just there.

You kiss his chest, lips pressing to the underside of his collarbone. The shaved strands of his chest hair poke up through his pores and prickle your skin as you breathe him in.

Your initiation causes something to stir in him and he grips the fat at your hip and kneads the flesh. 

Beginning an upward siege, you litter his shoulder and neck with kisses, moving achingly slowly across his body. You lick your lips, rake your teeth across his jugular and elicit a heavy sigh. His throat bobs. The ridges of his trachea shift, brushing your nose where it’s touching his skin as he tries to swallow a moan.

He's not like the men in the cliché's. He can't read your mind or predict faultlessly the whims of your body. No. Instead, he does the next best thing. He asks: 'What do you need?..'

'You...' The request trickles over your lips easily, like an old hymn. His hands ghost up your sides, leaving your body shivering in their wake. Fingers stretching, his hand breaches the mound of your breast and cradles it. Humming as his thumb brushes over your nipple, you tense, the muscles in your back pulling you up like a marionette.

He repeats the gesture once, twice, three times before his hand retreats to push southwards. He grabs a handful of your ass on his way to your knee. Hooking a hand around the joint, he tugs it over his hip before he's on the move again.

Your ankle digs into the round of his ass to anchor yourself and he snickers at the subtle pressure. The palm you'd planted on his chest drifts down. Each lean muscle lingering under his skin alters your trajectory slightly causing your fingertips to weave their own paths down his stomach. You slip below the border of his boxers with little resistance and press on through the course mess of his pubic hair before finally reaching your destination. He's already hardening when you take hold of him. It only takes a few cursory strokes of your hand before he's standing at full length and weeping. You collect a droplet of him from the tip of his cock and steal it away before turning your attention to yourself and rubbing it in small circles against your clit.

There's a lazy passion in his eyes when you lift your head to kiss him. He accepts your tongue, opens his jaw and sucks gently when you curl it up to touch the roof of his mouth. When you pull away, he smiles. Eye's flickering down towards your ministrations, he bites at the corner of his lip before slipping his hand underneath yours. 'Let me...'

You relinquish control and allow his palm to cup your sex. Relieved of it's charge, your hand catches his neck allowing your thumb to stroke the bend of his jaw.

He wastes no time, circles your clit only a handful of times before he's working you open with his fingers. First, there's only one digit that he slips in and out of you rhythmically, but as soon as you begin to open up around him he slips in a second. He doesn't bother to finger you properly with both his index and middle fingers tucked away inside of you. You don't need it. Already, your cunt is pulsing.

Your walls flex, creaming around him with an eagerness that, should you not be so accustomed to each other, would have made you embarrassed.

Lifting his fingertips, he strokes the roof of your cunt as his thumb comes down to press against your clit.

You gasp when you feel the spark of warmth in your stomach and then, whine when he leaves you empty.

He licks you off of his fingers, tongue lapping at the white cream coating his skin and moans as your sweetness slips to the back of his mouth. Then, his hand is back between you and reaching for the stiffened length of his cock. He removes himself from his boxers, a trained hand allowing him to press the head to your entrance and sink into you.

The fullness he gives you as he buries himself to the hilt is modest, but more than enough. You tense around him, feel the sides of his swell against your walls and let your eyes flutter shut as you bask in the stretch of him.

For a while you do nothing, but lie there. 

Not even the slow beating of your hearts can be heard in the half-silence of the room as the world continues to move around you, but that doesn't matter. You can feel it. The melodic flow of blood in his veins, the air he breaths into his lungs, the salt that rises to the surface of his skin. It's fiercely intimate to hold him inside you like this. To feel him raw against your sex always feels oddly profound and yet, it's nothing of the sort. His cock twitches and forces you to remain in the moment with him, casting away the insufficient adjectives that attempt to describe it.

It's not until you can feel him starting to soften that you're finally ready to move again. Pushing your hips backwards, you slip part-way off of his length before grinding back down and taking him whole again. The drag of his cock along your walls makes your cunt salivate and causes a new burst of warmth to bloom in your stomach with each thrust. 

Your orgasm takes you slowly. It builds tentatively, causing your cunt to tense and brace for impact as you near it's peak. It spreads, not like a wild fire, but like a controlled burn, seeping into your organs and the joints of your pelvis. 

'Fuck...' The curse is soft and followed by a series of shallow moans that soak into the drums of your ears. You know he is close because he tells you. He swallows and whispers it like a secret. 'I'm – close... Gonna -.'

A soft moan escapes your lips when you feel him shudder in your arms. Digging your heel into his lower back, you press him into you, desperate to collect every last drop of him.

He cums with a grunt. His eyelids flutter, mouth twisting almost enough to bare teeth and then, he stills.

You savour the warmth he's spread inside you, knowing that, in a second, he'll pull out. Which he does. His cock leaves you with a squishy pop and you wait to feel empty again, but the numbness doesn't return.

He smells like sex and sweat when he uses his nose to nudge your cheek, asking you silently to look at him. When you do, he kisses you. His lips catch yours only briefly before he's pulling away again. 'You go first... Need to, ha, need to catch my breath.'

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The en-suite is cold. The floor bites at the soles of your feet and the toilet seat pinches your ass as you sit down and wait for your body to relieve itself.  
Your head is empty. There are no words swimming at the back of your skull, no ideas bursting from you like fireworks or beautiful metaphors announcing themselves like rolls of thunder, but for once, that doesn't matter. It's in these moments of clarity that allow you to remember that there will always be another day to write. That it's okay to have a bad day, week, month, fuck, a bad year even.

You flush, wash your hands and return to the bedroom. 

After a while, when you've settled back down under the duvet you hear him flick off the bathroom light and pad back to bed. The mattress dips again under his weight as he wriggles to you and comes to rest flush to your back.  
'N- night.' Voice dying in the back of his throat, he nuzzles into his pillow before succumbing to sleep. 

He's not always your muse, or the match for your inspiration.

Sometimes he's just Kuroo, and you're just you.

And that's okay too.


End file.
